


I Wish

by lyriquediscorde



Series: I Wish [1]
Category: Carl Barât - Fandom, Pete Doherty - Fandom, The Libertines
Genre: M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriquediscorde/pseuds/lyriquediscorde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would happen if both Peter and Carl were granted a wish that would change the reality of where they are, and who they are, in regards to each other. </p>
<p>Alternate realities; starts a few years back (approx. 2008), then on to alternate timelines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue 1: Peter's Wish

Peter lies on his side, long legs more off the mattress then on, staring outside as an early morning rain trickles down the nearest window pane. There’s a line of pillows between his body and Carl’s, the lot of them threadbare and nearly smashed flat, but the barrier they create feels like the bloody wall of China, to Peter. The two of them had ended the night on this spotty mattress that lies carelessly atop the wood planked floor.

“Just like the old days”, Peter had said, trying for lightness.

Top-to-tail it used to be, with the occasional drunken indiscretion that would gift Peter just enough to instill feelings like _want_ and _need_ , and _love_. But that was a thousand yesterdays ago, and those rare encounters had mostly been met with an awkward morning after; the glaring light of a hangover causing them both to retreat into silence.

_It was never enough._

Just the same as right now, Peter though as he lay there next to Carl, full of the doubts and misgivings that are squashed between them, disguised as a threadbare pillow wall. It's only the sun's bright gaze peeking in through the raindrops that brings Carl's silhouette into view. The morning glow sheds light on his frame, as well as the barely there touch of Peter's fingertips as they seek out the slight twist of curl in Carl's dark hair. Peter holds his breath in tight, willing his touch to speak volumes of words the he can never manage so say out loud.

The flat feels cold. The three windows left broken after one of Peter's fits of regret, or some other kind of unnamed reaction, allow the chill to waft in. Peter wishes he could curl closer to Carl's body, share the warmth he can feel permeating off his skin. But he doesn't move a muscle beyond the slight touch of his long fingers. 

There are upturned boxes all around the flat, torn up scraps of paper strewn about, leaky biros and half-smoked cigarettes, and small piles of discarded clothing. Peter had tried to rush about and tidy the place before Carl arrived, but it had been a futile endeavor. Peter never felt settled in anywhere, and since he came and went so often that it was the cat and her offspring that seemed to run the place nowadays. He had managed to toss away anything that suggested his slips in sobriety, had thrown a few books to one side and shoved the mattress into the front room. It was not much to show, but he'd lived in worse - _they_ had lived in worse.

***

It was on a whim that he’d thought to ring Carl at all.

Peter had stumbled out of his local and out into the early hours of morning. A couple of pints shared with Mick, and talks about the days to come, had turned into an all-night debacle, per usual. The band -- Peter's band -- is set to leave for Spain the day after next. They were starting a tour that will take them buzzing about Europe well into spring, and Peter is excited for it, albeit nervous.

It was as Peter turned the corner that he swore he'd seen him. A cab taking the corner quickly, almost on rails, splashed a wave water onto the kerb where Peter was readying to cross. In the backseat he caught a flash of blue eyes staring out at him, eyes that looked just like Carl's. It was just this side of sunrise and the sky was a thick fog of grey, and yes, Peter was more than a bit sozzled. Nonetheless, in that moment he imagined that it was Carl; the thought leaving a familiar unsettling in his stomach, and an unmistakable urge to speak to Carl before he set off on this tour.

It had taken far less coercing to get him here than Peter had anticipated. Peter had pulled together a dramatic speech which he’d memorized on the rest of the walk home. It had been a bit of Shakespeare meets Kierkegaard, with a dash of confession in the flavour of Wilde. It was quite brilliant really, Peter thought as he’d practiced it out loud to his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’d paced around the flat a bit after waiting for the day to unravel; waiting for it to be late enough to call.

_Carl was never one for an early morning after._

Carl was quick to agree, stating a short yes through the telephone wires. It had taken Peter by surprise. He’d not hesitated though, clicking off before Carl could think twice about it and change his mind. It never occurred to Peter that Carl may have had other reasons to come round beyond wanting to see him. He still naively assumed they wanted the same things, just as they had back at the start.

Peter still believed that all their wishes were somehow, like stars, forever aligned. Not that they had been orbiting anywhere close to each other, not for a good long while anyway.

The visit itself had been smooth sailing, so to speak. Carl arrived offering hugs and cheers, and the polite exchange of conversation that veered away from certain subjects that they both seemed to have silently agreed to avoid. They’d had some time to practice this dance over the past year, what with the Hackney gig, and that Beatles recording. Talk skipped round from mutual acquaintances to albums they’d recently discovered, and when things began to wane, or feel awkward, they’d had music to reach for, or an offered bottle to share.

The evening had followed along much of the same course, the guitars brought out soon enough, a few good sings of the old songs – just two boys messing about as they were apt to do when left alone. They passed a bottle between them, sharing as they used to, sitting cross-legged on the hard floor.

Carl’s voice lifted a pitch higher when his blood was warmed with whiskey, his fingers lithe and almost floating as he crossed over to the next chord progression, his body turning electric. Peter had always been envious of the way Carl could play guitar. Peter was clever with a turn of phrase, with poetry and songwriting, but his hands often went shaky when they met with anything besides biro and paper.

Carl had taught him all that he did know about the guitar, not that Peter cared much for admitting it. He had sat for hours at Peter’s side with a seemingly inexhaustible amount of patience for all his fumbles and misplaced fingers. He believed in Peter, and would tell him over and again that someday it would all become easy, that soon he would just know where his fingers should land for each and every song, even the ones still unfolding in his head.

Trouble is, Peter never believed any of it.

He would nod and smile at Carl, eyes wide as if he were a child taking in some fabled “happy ever after”. Most of the time, though, Peter was just searching for a credible excuse to look at Carl; keeping his eyes averted from Carl had always been more of a struggle than learning to play the damned guitar ever could be.

Carl opened up a world for Peter, one he’d only half-imagined from the pages of books, sides of old record albums and his own scrawled creations. It lit him up and gave him everything; but, there were the parts of Carl that he never could quite understand, or reconcile, a darkness that Peter would try to lift, again and again. And, there were the arguments (though sometimes Peter liked those), and there were the jealousies, and all those misplaced feelings.

But, none of that disheartened Peter deeply, not really.

No, it was the changes, the times spent more apart than together, the realized dreams that stole away so much of that world Peter had first seen through Carl’s eyes, the one he’d come to put his faith in, and later lost.

Eventually, it was the brown and white that Peter turned to as something to believe in.

It had helped at first, steadying his hand, and giving over a somewhat blurry rush of confidence. Peter reasoned that he needed it in order to play alongside of Carl, swore it gifted him that sense of ease he’d found so hard to reach. It took him to a different place, _it did_ ; a place where he could play guitar like Johnny Marr, scratch out words of beauty like Rimbaud, and deal with the undercurrent buzz of lust he felt for his best friend, and now band mate.

It took him to places that Carl used to, before…

But the contracts had been signed, the bookings placed, and soon they were just that – a band. They weren’t Peter and Carl anymore, no. They were The Libertines.

Or, they had been, until the muddled up mess of confrontations, lock-ups, and ultimatums happened; until it was all over and done with.

_Why can’t Carl see I have control of it? That all of it is just part of this road we chose together? I’ve stopped, haven’t I? I’m clean now. But what has it changed? It hasn’t changed much of anything at all. Has it?_

***

Peter feels it rise in him again, that familiar bitterness. He swallows it back, hard and fast, reaching for the bottle, and avoiding eye contact with Carl. He doesn’t want the night to end in shouted words or thrown fists.

_But we’re past all that, anyhow, aren’t we?_

There’s a tour just days away, and he doesn’t need Carl for any of it.

Not anymore.

_And Carl…Carl never really needs me, does he?_

“Another song then, Bilo?” Carl asked with a tentative grin, upturning Peter’s thoughts.

_Why’d he have to go and call me that, as if I still was his? I never was his? Never, never._

Carl’s smile disarms Peter, though, making him feel pliable and jangled. He wants so badly to murmur yes, and let himself slip into the music, and into Carl; allow himself to be lost in it, just for one night. But, something holds him back, something about all of it Peter just can’t bear. It feels off, as if Carl is granting him a favour coming round and playing guitar with him.

_I mean, clearly Carl has gone on with it._

Peter can sense the distance, the finality. He can see it clearly in Carl’s tired eyes.

He looks right at Carl, searching for some kind of sign.

_Always doing this, I am. I’m always looking for something that’s never there._

“Tired. But, you go on,” Peter answers, taking another pull off the bottle, and lying back onto the floor.

“Should go then,” Carl retorts, laying the guitar out in front of the both of them.

“Can stay. Here. I mean…if you want to,” Peter says, voice quiet enough that it could be mistaken as an exhaled breath.

Carl shrugs, lights a cigarette, and continues to play.

Eventually the second bottle is empty. Carl makes his way over to the mattress, lies down, lining the strewn pillows between where Peter is meant to be, and where he lies. Peter stays behind on the floor, in a bit of a sulk; not wanting to just follow along.

_Not as if he ever asks._

This is not what Peter wanted it to be like, though he’s arsed to know what it is he thought it would be like. It seems silly to think on really, with a band each, and a tour about to start, for _his._

But part of Peter wants it – Carl, and all of it – back.

Peter eventually gets up and makes his way to the mattress. He lies down next to Carl, listening to the way his breath weaves in-and-out. He counts the beats that stretch out between intake and release, memorizing a pattern that in all honesty is still part of Peter’s subconscious. He knows just when the sound will shift, and just exactly when it will mean that Carl has completely fallen asleep.

***

Peter dreams of Carl lying alongside of him.

They are on their backs in the countryside green, making wishes on funny shaped clouds.

The two of them are laughing.

Carl reaches over to take Peter’s hand in his, as if they are mates again.

Peter wakes suddenly, feeling wistful, and sad. The sound of the rain, and the noticeable presence of those pillows wedged between them, just adds to his longing. Carl’s hair feels soft, warm, familiar; the feel of it leaves impressions on his skin, and nudges at all this wanting, needing, and loving. He feels aroused, and frustrated, and…

_Since when did wishing on clouds lead to this?_

At this moment, right now, Peter thinks he’d like to go back. Back to Carl sleeping next to him more times than not, back to squabbling over which song goes first and who wrote what, back to writing something together at all. Back to before the words turned ugly, or awkward. Back before all the hurt, and all the distance.

If Carl could forget it all, all Peter’s failures, he could wipe it all clean; a _clean_ that means they’d still be together, that they would still be _them_.

Peter closes his eyes tightly. Pulling his hand back from under the pillow, and presses his palms together, trying for some kind of spiritual pose. He remembers as a child he believed in the power of a wish. Was it not Barrie and Pan who wished faeries back to life? Well, it’s worth a try, Peter decides.

_I wish that Carl would forget it all. I wish that we were still Libertines._

 


	2. Prologue Part Two - Carl's Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would happen if both Peter and Carl were granted a wish that would change the reality of where they are, and who they are, in regards to each other.
> 
> Alternate realities; starts a few years back (approx. 2008), then on to alternate timelines.

The call came in the middle of the day, or the start, depending on your perspective. It’s later than he’d meant to wake, and Carl is still pulling himself through the fuzzy shades of grey that layer over everything inside of a “morning after.” He’s in bed sill, lying on the side facing the wall, lazily tracing the indentions in the bed sheets. Carl is trying to sort out what he’s meant to do today, or whether or not he’s hungry. The flat is quiet, the only sounds coming from outside the half-open window, somewhere in the street below. Annalisa had that thing early, something to do with a friend’s upcoming wedding. Her absence makes the bed feel larger, the room vacant, and his senses restless.

Carl tangles the duvet between his feet, pulling it to the left, than shaking it off completely. He runs the night before through his mind, the drinks and the boys talking rapid fast about the new album. The excitement had been infectious, a good cause for a bottle, and another, and one more still. He had lifted Annalisa right up and out of her chair and spun her around in dizzy circles. It had felt good to have things to celebrate, and people to share it with.

_Would have been nice if Peter could have been there_.

‘S just…well sometimes…Carl still wants to share news with his estranged friend.

Carl thinks of Peter less and less, each day the memories become more like blurred photographs, the kind you have to squint to bring into focus; everyday they fade a little more, and the missing stings a little less.

Peter should have been with them last night, though. Last night Carl had missed him.

But these are new days, and there are so many reasons he’s got to be alright, and Carl knows them all well. He’d spent months and days and hours clearing the cobwebs; throwing out the decay, prattling on with a therapist, and trudging onward. And trudge on he has. In all these changes Carl feels lighter, no longer fraught with all that darkness, well, not as much, anyhow.

_Walk by open windows without hesitation, and a bridge is just something to cross, innit?_

Not that it’s all sunshine and lollipops, that first year apart had been hell, there’s no denying it. But, he’d made it to the other side, hadn’t he?

Everyone around Carl reminds him of how much better things are now. They help him focus on all the things to come, and they’ve been part of his healing, and of his newfound hope. A new band, mates who come round when expected, and an unfamiliar fuel of confidence that seem part and parcel to Carl’s make up now; he has even learned to hold his own on-stage – alone. He no longer feels the unease of no one right beside him, and isn’t so afraid of leading a band all on his own anymore.

Most days, his newly found self-regard even sticks to Carl off-stage.

And now a new album – a second album – is almost ready to drop.

But today, lying in bed alone, Carl can’t deny that he misses Peter. It could be the stillness of the room, or the ticking of the clock on the bed stand, a rhythm that is keeping time now with the throbbing in his head. It could be the hours in the studio these past few weeks that have taken just about everything from him. Carl hastens to admit that being looked on as the leader wears him right through. But, it does. Every now and again he wishes for someone to push back, to scuffle over lyrics, or to have a partner to spar with over which song is meant to follow which – or just something that Carl can begrudgingly give over to someone else to decide.

Perhaps that’s what this missing is, just sheer exhaustion.

Whatever the reason, Carl feels it setting in like a shadow casting a sense of loneliness across his chest. The weight of it feels like a crack in his core, a crack opening him up just enough to let Peter slide right into. Carl feels him in the tightness of his breathing, and in his spinning thoughts.

Carl can still recall those late afternoons when they would wake up in that room together, the one that was always too warm inside. The murky residue of smoke and overturned bottles permeated the walls and had seeped into their clothing, their shared mattress, and the walls; turning everything sour. And yet, it was in that dank room that Carl had always felt most alive. He was loath to admit it now, even to himself, but it was those days with Peter, when they were nothing but buskers and beggars, that Carl catches himself longing for sometimes.

It had been on days like this, when Carl’s head ached from a night of excess, that Peter would tend to him. He always seemed to be able to pull himself up and into the day no matter what level of debauchery he was shaking off. Peter just had that way of kicking on through it. He would sneak out the back and disappear for a spell, later to return with fruit and bottles of milk from Tesco, a childlike grin of mischief dancing in his warm, wide eyes. It was usually enough to coax Carl from his self-inflicted sulk, and he would get up then, have a sit with Peter, never once asking how he came about those bags full of domestic treats.

_Fuck._

Right now he would give anything for a bit of that, of Peter taking care of him, to be back to still trusting him enough to do just that.

It was at that very moment, with Peter feeling so close in his mind, that Carl’s mobile rings. It was an unfamiliar number, something he typically ignores, but he answered it this time, albeit with a modicum of hesitation.

“‘Lo?” Carl mumbles in a low, ragged tone.

“Carl…’s that you?” The voice on the other end of the line is just as hesitant. Spaces and breaks between staggered-breathing and an almost-whisper that Carl would know anywhere. It’s Peter, and he’s asked for him to come round - _today_.

There are stacks of reasons why Carl should say no, why he ought to just send his regards and go about his day. Carl can hear the list reciting in his head. They take on the voices of Annalisa, of Didz and Stan, even of his Mum and his sister, Lucie.

_You are happy. You are over all of this. You are free of all that chaos and catastrophe, all that shite. You have no reason at all to go backwards. Not now._

Carl repeats it in his head, but who exactly is he trying to convince?

Thing is, he misses his friend today, missed him last night, too. He has things he wants to talk to Peter about. Not big things, nothing terribly consequential, not the same old rehash and rubble, but _things_ all the same.

He stumbles and starts to say it, tries to say no, but his arguments and reasons are at a stand-still, and they sick there, hard, in the back of his throat. Again he is meant to make a decision, a choice, a fucking stand. Carl reaches across the bed stand for his pack, knocking one out and pressing it to his lips, lighting it with an exaggerated inhale.

“Just…” Peter begins.

“Yes,” Carl interrupts the word racing out his mouth before he’s completely sure, or ready for it. The yes is blurted out as an exhale. He feels his hands start to shake, and a bead of sweat begin to drip down his spine.

_What am I doing?_

“Yeah? Yeah. This afternoon then, you know where…” Peter speaks quickly, his words overlapping, nerves apparent through the phone line as he rattles off the street and numbers to where he’s staying.

“Yes,” Carl repeats, interrupting Peter again, than dropping the line – fast.

He reaches over to Annalisa’s side and tears a sheet out of the back of a notebook and scribbles down the numbers before he forgets, or changes his mind.

Carl falls back on the bed and pulls the duvet up and over his head. The dizziness of the all turning the room into carousal rides.

_Was it so easy, then? To think on Peter and have him ring up and invite him round? Four what exactly?_

Carl’s not even sure what it is he’s agreed to, just that he knows he wants to see Peter, and that Peter apparently wants to see him. He fights back the what if’s that chase circles through his mind, swallowing them down into that familiar place where he keeps all his doubts and frustrations, and starts to get up and out of bed. He grabs his discarded jeans from the floor, turning them right side out and sliding them on.

He stumbles around the flat, barefoot, gathering up things to bring with him: his guitar, extra strings and plectrums as Peter never remembers to keep spares, bottle of whiskey, and courage (or maybe that’s what the whiskey’s for). Courage is what Carl needs most of all, he thinks.

He should ring up Annalisa and tell her where he’ll be.

Should tell someone.

Time with Peter can mean anything. Carl realizes, as well, that any step near Peter is risking the click and the clatter of the tabloid vultures. The questions never seem to get old, and Carl is fucking tired of the forced smile and tight lipped sentiment when the same old “will they, or won’t they” surfaces again, and again.

A call will mean an explanation, and Carl knows he has none.

He scratches out a note instead, leaving it on the counter by the door.

_Off for a think. Carl x._

***

            Peter sits cross-legged in front of Carl, hands twitching even as he tries to hold them steady in his lap. It’s one of the first things Carl noticed about Peter, back when they’d first met, that energy sparks off him constantly and he can never, ever sit still.

“One of yours then?” Carl asks, tentatively.

The bands, each of theirs, are prickly subjects to both of them. Carl knows this well. Peter looks up, but not at him, hands fidgeting even more. Carl hands his guitar to him, as a gesture, even though he notices Peter has quite a few scattered around the room. Peter runs his fingers along the side of it, slowly raising his eyes to Carl.

“Remember that guitar? The one we had with the…” Peter starts.

“The hole in the side.” Carl finishes, smiling at the memory. They had shared that guitar between them, it was all they could afford at the time. “Taught you to play on that ol’ thing.”

“Did not. Knew how to play before I met you. Used to play…” Peter counters.

“To all those bloody Smiths songs, even though you didn’t know how to play a fucking E chord.” Carl laughs, rolling his eyes playfully.

“Did so, just pretended. Made ya feel better is all.” Peter says, feigning a matter-of-fact pose with his arms tight across his chest. He pulls a face, but the corner of his eyes gives him away, twitching ever so slightly; always a tell that Peter is trying to pull one over.

“Bilo…” Carl starts playfully, immediately wishing he could retract the nickname. He feels the weight of what he’s said fall heavy and thick, darkening everything suddenly. It’s the second time he’s let it slip tonight. This time, though, Peter’s eyes shadow over, and he pushes himself back and away from the guitar, and Carl.

The nicknames, like every other created myth between them, had come fast. Soon after they’d met Peter was already playing about with Carl’s name, making it his own.

_That’s part of it, innit? Something just ours._

“You play one of your dirty pretty songs.” Peter says flatly, interrupting Carl’s thoughts.

Peter doesn’t’ wait for a response. He stands up and wanders out of the room.

Carl is left there, alone, for what feels like years. The twisting of regret that is so god-damn familiar settles in the pit of his stomach. He grabs the bottle, but they’ve drained it already. Peter returns finally. He sits a second bottle between them, after taking a long pull off it first. He sits back down, but farther away this time, sulking silently.

_It has been so long since I felt like this. Like old times, before everything changed times. Back before this was all so fucking complicated._

Carl used to know just what to do to pull Peter from one of his sulks. They were usually only half-meant anyway, and he knew the way Peter would tug at his emotions by using the silence, the curled shoulders, the lowered eyes and downturned lips. Carl would take it most times. He grew so accustomed to Peter’s chatter and constant motion, that the quiet would slice the air in half and leave him desperate for any kind of sound – even if it meant an argument. But tonight, Carl feels at a loss. What can he say? What is there left to say?

He stares at the abandoned guitar, and glances up at Peter again.

_Perhaps I should just shove off, go home. Annalisa will be back, and she will curl up next to him and tell him all about her day. Maybe make him a cuppa. I don’t need to fix this. I don’t._

He does, though. He came here because he missed Peter and he’s not about to walk out with more bad feelings between them, distancing them further. Perhaps a song will pull him back again. Carl reaches for the bottle of whiskey, takes a hard pull off of it, lights a smoke, and starts to play “Norwegian Wood”.

They had disagreed – often – about which Beatles album was the best. Peter seemed to prefer the earlier jangly guitars and pop-heavy lyrical refrains, whereas Carl fancied the later albums, especially the “White Album”. But, it was “Rubber Soul” they had eventually agreed on, a pass in-between, and this song was one of their favourites. He watches as Peter’s eyes meet his, split-second quick, along with a blink and you’d miss it smile teasing at the corner of Peter’s lips. But, it’s all too brief, flash and then gone, and soon enough he returns to his stare off with the floor.

“Another song then?” Carl asks tentatively, the words thick on his tongue.

Carl is met with more silence, and he’s not sure he can take much more. He’s just about to call it off when Peter says flatly that he’s tired, but that Carl can continue, keep playing, and _stay_ if he wants.

Carl considers it, plucking a few chords, messing about more than playing anything really.

_Head’s too full to sort out a song._

He’s not ready to leave Peter yet, and maybe…if he stays…maybe…he might wake to find Peter back from Tesco with warm eyes and a bag of treats, just as he was remembering earlier. He nods at Peter, trying to suss out if any of that warmth is left in him, at all.

_Has too much gone on for me to ever find it again?_

Carl eventually gets up and wanders over to the mattress that’s been pushed up against a cracked paned window. He’s sure there’s a bedroom just down the hall, but this seems so familiar, and oddly inviting. The window lets in the night air, and Carl shivers as he tries to curl up into his leather jacket.

There are pillows strewn on the floor beside the mattress. Carl gathers them together and lines them up in the middle, a fair split of sides so they each have room. He used to do this to give the two of them some semblance of space; they had been so skint all the time and had never been able to have much of anything, and Carl had always known that Peter had come from so much more.

It was a gesture, however slight, to give Peter something back. He had given Carl so much, pulled him out of a darkness he never felt comfortable talking on, and he’s wanted to just…

It had changed, though. All the light that shone off Peter dimmed and faded as the crack and smack took over. It had never been who Peter was, yet it took him so far away from Carl that it eventually did become Peter. And those pillows? They’d become a sign of the walls that rose up between them, until it was Carl on one side of the world, and Peter on the other.

***

Carl tries to sleep but the memories start to flood in, overwhelming, and so vivid.

It was that night, a few notes in their pockets gifting them a reason to go out and have a knees up together. There was that girl, skinny and dark-eyed.

_What was her name?_

She’d given them both a thrill with her persistent attention, and they’d bantered back-and-forth, vying to be the one she chose – not that either had really wanted her.

She’d been the one to bring it out. The three of them had headed back to hers. She’d excused herself with one of those dramatic sighs and an “off to get into something comfortable” that made them both grin. She’d come back with a small tray, pipe and baggie full of rocks. Carl had done it once or twice, though he preferred the neat lines of powder to smoking it up. But, it had been quite the night, and he wasn’t about to back down now, not with her, and not to Petr; Carl reached for it first, taking a dizzying hit, then passed it over.

Carl remembers the look on Peter’s face, clearer than he’d ever seen it that night, the uncertainty and trepidation, and he should have…

_Fuck._

_He should have said…_

_I wish it had never fucking happened. That Peter had never taken any of it. I wish that he’d veered away from drugs, the way he’d meant to._


	3. Chapter 1A - Wake Up Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would happen if both Peter and Carl were granted a wish that would change the reality of where they are, and who they are, in regards to each other.
> 
> Alternate realities; starts a few years back (approx. 2008), then on to alternate timelines.
> 
> Chapter 1A - Peter wakes in a strange hotel room to find confusing clues to where he may be, and then Carl comes in the room...confusing him more.

It’s the sound of a bird that he first hears when he wakes, the shrill flutter and buzz of something flapping against a glass pane from a window shuttered just enough to block out the day outside. Peter’s head pounds in an all too familiar way. He’s long forgotten what it means to wake up without some kind of ache. He wipes at his eyes, trying to focus on the room around him, slowly recognizing that he does not recognize a single thing. This is not all that new a feeling either, not really. Waking up in strange places, like the pain he feels, is simply part of his life now. Thoughts start to pulse through him though, memory slipping in through the haze of morning, rousing him into a fully awake.

He’d been at his flat, and he’d been with Carl.

_Hadn’t I?_

They had played music, drank those bottles of whiskey dry, he’d gotten upset over something.

Peter can’t remember what, though – not clearly.

He recalls Carl dropping to the mattress and falling asleep, and all those fucking pillows lined up between them.  

But wait, this is a bed, and this room is tidy, bloody sterile – almost – put together with a bit too much care.

_Where the fuck am I?_

Peter sits up quickly, his body reacting slower than his spinning head can register, causing him to clumsily loop a foot into the tangled bed sheet and fall to the ground. He struggles to stand, shaking his foot loose, then finally standing up. This room…is a hotel room. The smell of starched bedclothes and stale smoke intrinsically weaves into memories of many past tours Peter has been on, though not the recent ones, not the half-cocked tour of duty he’s been on as of late. No, this is more like the days when Carl still let him into his room for the night.

_Carl. Is Carl here somewhere? Had they left the flat then, and turned up here?_

Peter sifts through his pockets, emptying them out on the dresser to the left of the bed. Pack of smokes, couple of lighters, and a single key on a scratched blue tag with the number four etched onto it. He holds it in his open palm, studying it as if it might tell him the story of what this all means, as if the number will jog something in his clouded mind and bring to light just where he is, and how he’s managed to end up in a hotel room. In the corner, thrown carelessly across a chair, Peter spots a leather jacket. It’s Carl’s. He knows it instantly; a thousand nights have come and gone where Peter has seen the boy in nothing more than unwashed jeans and _that_ jacket. He would know it anywhere.

_Was Carl wearing it yesterday? That jacket?_

Peter swears it’s been years since he’s seen Carl in it – not even in pictures. Much like many of the other articles and symbols of who they once wore, the jacket seemed to be discarded and tossed aside as Peter has long since felt himself to have been. In the quiet moments of self-regard and solitude (not that there is ever much of that nowadays) he knows that it is not as simple as rejection that he feels. But the loss of Carl, no matter how he has summed it up or tried to rewrite it, he’s never quite reconciled it in his heart. Easier to catalogue it alongside a discarded jacket, or a ring that neither of them wear anymore. It’s easier to make it about being thrown away – it keeps the anger bigger than the sadness and missing.

Bitterness has wormed itself so deep under Peter’s skin, and he’s feeling it again now, sour and metallic tasting, causing him to rush to the bathroom and retch violently into the sink.

_When will it stop hurting?_

He splashes cold water on his face, and works his fingers through his hair, trying to collect himself as best as he can. He raises his eyes to catch sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror, wiping it clear with a hand towel, and Peter finds he sees nothing but emptiness in the pools of his vacant brown eyes.

It is then that he notices it, strangers and more surreal than the sight of that jacket thrown across the chair. He is shirtless, wearing only jeans and his pale skin. Something is missing though, a few somethings really. Ink marks are missing, of both band names – no Baby Shambles, and at a frantic glance, no Libertine on his arm either.

Peter bolts from the bathroom, shaking and confused, going straight for Carl’s abandoned jacket. He’s not sure what he thinks he’ll find, some clue perhaps to all this nonsense that must be some trick of his increasingly fucked senses. He knows he is nowhere near steady, hell, he’s not veered even close to that for longer than he can remember, but this is nothing near comprehensible. He searches the jacket’s pockets and pulls out a Polaroid. He holds it up, squints his eyes to make the image clear in the faux dark of the cloaked room, and sees and image of Carl and himself, side-by-side, staring back at him.

_Carl in this fucking jacket._

At that moment the door opens, slowly, bringing with it a stream of daylight that makes Peter’s eyes squint even more. He blinks a few times, dropping the photograph to the floor, focusing slowly on Carl who is smiling quizzically at Peter as he closes the door behind him.

“You’re up then,” Carl says, almost playfully, as he moves closer to Peter.

Peter backs up, closer to the edge of the bed, trying desperately to steady himself. His head is full of questions and confusion, though he is struck quite dumb at the sight of Carl. He can’t help but stare at him, searching for some kind of explanation, yet mesmerized at what he’s noticing in his eyes. It’s a fire that Peter has not seen in years, and it fucking melts him, right then and there, making his legs to wobbly and weak. Peter is unable to hold his body upright any longer, all composure deconstructing from that look in Carl’s eyes. Peter gives into it, letting his body fall back onto the bed, arms flailing out to catch him from dismantling into the mattress completely.

Carl’s eyebrow raises, and his smile twists into something almost feral, lust playing at the corner of his half-parted lips and dancing in his eyes. He nears Peter, his hands going immediately to Peter’s chest, palms flat and insistent as he pushes Peter further onto the bed until Peter is lying flat on his back, with only his long legs dangling onto the floor.

“It’s back to bed with us, is it? Fair enough. The city can wait.” Carl says, throwing the bag he’s holding onto the ground, and straddling his legs over Peter’s.


	4. I Wish :: Chapter 1B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would happen if both Peter and Carl were granted a wish that would change the reality of where they are, and who they are, in regards to each other.
> 
> Alternate realities; starts a few years back (approx. 2008), then on to alternate timelines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up where 1A left off...
> 
> Teaser: Everything feels inside out and smashed together. It’s as if the world has collapsed into nothing beyond narrowing, unfamiliar walls, and all Peter can feel anymore is this pounding desire.

“Fuck…Carl…what…” Peter tries to sit up, to hold Carl back, to ask him where they are, what is happening, what is this, anything.

  
But Carl pushes back, hard, his hands still palm flat on Peter’s chest, his weight heavy and persistent. He leans in close, mere inches from Peter’s face. Peter can feel his breath hot on his skin, eyes open and pupil’s dark and full-moon wide, giving Carl a look of being half-mad. His fingers move fast now, down Peter’s shuddering middle, making quick work of the button and zip of Peter’s pants. Carl leans back far enough to tug them down past jutting hip bones, moaning a _yes_ as they slide even further.

Peter’s head is fuzzy, confused, and he tries to speak again but finds his voice to be tangled up in ragged exhales. His body betrays any and all questions, flushing suddenly and taut with pin-pricked heat. His hips lift towards Carl’s, instinctively, and his hands reach up toward Carl, fingers curling onto belt loops as he tries to pull him in closer. Carl rises up fast in response, suddenly on his feet, throwing Peter’s hands off roughly.

“Tut-tut, Peter, that’s not how this game goes.” Carl chides, wagging a finger at Peter.

Peter’s hands drop to his side, confusion now fighting to take back control of his senses, his own eyes now gone wide and unblinking as he stares up at Carl in disbelief. Carl fusses with his belt buckle, a few choice expletives spitting out of his mouth until he finally unbuckles it, unloosening, and slipping it out of his jeans completely. Carl looks at him now, a guttural laugh escaping from his slightly curling lips. He snaps the belt hard, the leather cracking against the wood of the bedside drawer.

Carl looks so bloody serious.

This has to be a joke, or something.

“’S this the game then, Carl? Cowboys? ‘Spose to have a lasso aren’t ya?” Peter stifles a giggle, lifting himself up now and shaking his head, not wanting to be unwittingly caught in a prank.

Carl pushes forward, his knee making contact with Peter’s chest – with force – knocking him back onto the bed, taking Peter’s breath along with him. Carl grabs hold of Peter’s hands with skilled precision, encircling the belt around them, threading it through the buckle and tightening it around his wrists. Gone is any hesitation, or tremble in Carl, leaving nothing but a satisfied grin as he lifts off of Peter again.

“The fuck?” Peter sputters, catching hold of his breath finally, wiggling and twisting, but not getting anywhere; his jeans are stuck round his knees now, which along with his now tied hands, make it impossible for him to move.

“Shut it now, quiet and still,” Carl trills, his voice a manic sing-song in Peter’s ears, as the room starts to spin.

A stab of fear hits deep inside of Peter. He tries to move again, his heart thumping a break-beat rhythm of panic, as if it is trying to escape right up and out of his body.

_This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t fucking real._

The words repeat, chanting, rising to the tip of his tongue. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, afraid to utter a sound.

_This isn’t real._

Carl’s eyes soften for a moment, and he blinks slowly, as if clearing something away. He leans in close again, his face burying into Peter’s neck, lips close to his ear.

“Just me…just youandme.” The words mumble together, soothing, whisper soft against Peter’s warm skin.

None of it makes sense, not a spot of it, especially not this lack of control. But, _that voice_ , and Carl’s leg pressing against his bare skin, and _yes_ , the giveaway pulse pounding through him from all of it, as if Carl has reached inside of him and flipped on a switch. All Peter knows for sure is that _whatever_ this is, with Carl’s tongue now tracing slippery circles down his neck, he _wants_ it.

Peter writhes beneath Carl, need growing exponentially, his cock twitching hard against Carl’s denim clad leg. Carl grabs roughly at Peter’s hair, tufts slipping between his fingers that he grabs hold of again. He bites down on the soft flesh of Peter’s neck, enough to draw blood, and elicit a muffled _yelp_ from Peter.

“Can do better than that,” Carl hisses, still close to Peter’s ear. “Want to hear you scream.”

Peter opens his mouth, breath-gasping, trying hard to swallow up the air in the room that seems to have turned humid, sticky and thick. His body shakes tremors of lust, as Carl’s mouth travels further down his neck, teeth baring again, nipping at Peter’s bare shoulders, then down the pliable skin just under his raised arm.

Peter’s cock throbs, as he struggles to lift his body further, the friction of skin on the stiff-scratch of denim causing him to wince. He wants, fucking needs, to feel more. He writhes, twists and pushes at Carl, his legs bucking wildly as he tries to kick his way out of his own tangled jeans.

“Please…Carl…please.”

Desperation clings to each breathless staccato-strong word.

Carl seems to not hear him at all, or he’s just mad intent on ignoring Peter, as he continues that nip and bit brigade n his skin that leaves behind a spotty pattern of pink swelling wherever his mouth has just been. When he reaches the rise and fall of jutted hip bones and tender skin Peter loses it completely in a blurry desire. He kicks his legs up in reckless abandon, like he’s a stunned horse who’s just felt the crack of a whip for the first time. Carl’s body is jostled, upturned, falling to one side, then right off the bed.

“Had enough then, have you? Want me to stop? Could go back out the way I came…” Carl threatens, voice thick and breathing labored, as he stands up and smooths out his shirt with his hands.

“No…Carl…no…c’mere…please.”

His panic returns, hot and heavy, desperately tugging at Peter.

“What you want then, Pete? Tell me…what you want?” Carl asks, his voice steady and so controlled.

Carl steps close, his fingers teasing light touches on Peter’s legs, tracing circles near to where his jeans still cling, and hang precariously, just below his shaking knees.

“You…you…I want you…please…Carl…”

Everything feels inside out and smashed together. It’s as if the world has collapsed into nothing beyond narrowing, unfamiliar walls, and all Peter can feel anymore is this pounding desire. His eyes are a stinging, blurry mess from trying to keep them unblinkingly on Carl. He gives in and lets them close finally, as he feels all sense of consciousness fall away from him. Peter feels everything start to fade, and go black.

Then there’s a tug, deft hands yanking Peter’s jeans completely off of him now, his body nearly sliding off the bed in the effort. Carl mumbles something imperceptible under his breath, hands at his own pants now, ripping them open and shoving out of them completely. Shirt is off next, thrown hastily to the other side of the bed. Peter blinks, focusing on Carl again. Carl stands over him now, stark naked and so fucking beautiful. Peter gasps, audibly, every nerve in his body lighting up again in pulse and beat and trembles and…

_Fuck_.

Carl lifts Peter’s legs, knees up, pushing them open wide. He leans into him now, his body pressing against Peter’s, a mutual shake and shudder spark between them as their cocks tangle and touch, skin-on-skin, _finally_.

Carl’s mouth is on Peter’s now, his tongue imploring Peter’s to open wider and take in a deep kiss. Carl twirls his tongue around Peter’s, taking it between his lips and sucking on it slowly. He pulls at Peter’s tongue, then pushes back deep into his mouth again. Peter bites Carl’s bottom lip, softly at first, then with more fervor. Carl twists, moans into his mouth, his hips grinding rhythmically with Peter’s.

“Fuck me, Carlos.”

_There it is then. How long have I wanted to say that – just that – to him?_

Carl disengages the kiss, raising his eyes to meet Peter’s, licking his lips hungrily, and smiles. He leans in to Peter, sliding an arm underneath his hips and turns him over. Peter struggles to balance on his elbows, his buckled tight wrists making each move near impossible. Carl steadies him though, reaching up and over, placing him into a more stable position. Peter arches his back, feline stretched and taut, as Carl runs a hand down the curve of his spine. The there is nothing suddenly, the absence of Carl’s touch startling and unwanted and…

_No._

But then there’s a pressure, followed by a sharp sting, as Carl’s fingers work their way inside of Peter. He gasps, as his body stiffens, ringing tight and close around Carl as he pushes further inside of Peter. His fingers move in a cyclical motion, pressing more once he’s full in, knowingly, hitting a spot at last that sends Peter reeling and sputtering near nonsensically.

“Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.”

Carl slides his fingers out suddenly, the loss of pressure and touch and movement causing Peter to cry out, shaking.

“Please…please…more.”

Carl’s hands are back on him though, quick and precise, pushing his legs open wider, and then it’s all of Carl inside of him, tentative, at first, then thrust completely in.

Peter cries out again, this time from the burning pull and slice of too much, tears stinging his eyes. Carl shoves in deeper, then pulls almost all the way out, only to slam back in again. His hands are hard on Peter’s hips, nails digging deep into his skin as he tries to hold him steady. Peter feels his head go dizzy, pain blurring all sight, _and then…and then…and then_ …it changes.

Carl’s rhythm sets itself right, movement becoming more fluid, as Peter starts to ride along with it. Waves of pleasure shoot sugar-shock electricity up his spine, down his legs, and through his pulsing cock.

“God. Carl. Oh. God. Carl. God. Carl.”

With very word Peter’s voice rises an octave, going higher, and higher.

Carl reaches around Peter now, grabbing a hard hold of his cock. It’s weeping already and teetering on the edge of orgasm. Carl’s hand works in tandem with the rush and push of his hips, and Peter bucks and shudders beneath him, pushing back into Carl furiously. It only takes three strokes and then the sound Carl had _demanded_ earlier comes _screaming_ out of Peter’s lips.

As he comes Peter feels as if his insides, his guts and bones, dreams and desires, fuck-ups and brilliances, all explode together, all into Carl’s hand.

Carl grabs onto Peter’s hips, pushing forward, and once more hard into Peter, and then it’s his own shudder and shake, then release; a string of _yes, oh yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes_ stuttering from Carl’s lips.

***

Afterwards, no further words pass between them. Carl undoes the belt from Peter’s wrist, freeing him, and Peter rubs at the red marks that encircle his pale skin. He watches Carl get up, grab the bad he’d discarded on the floor when he’d come in the room, and trail off to the bathroom.

Peter’s body aches, his skin stings, and his head is pounding. But, he smiles, regardless. He curls up against the pillows, tucking his legs close into him, wincing a bit as he moves. He waits, eyes fixed on the bathroom door as he strains to hear any sounds coming from within.

He hears the water go on, then off, and then the sound of a shower start up. Peter starts to drift off, the noise of the running tap lulling him into the warm cocoon of sleep.

He doesn’t wake when Carl comes back into the room, not when he lies down next to Peter either. It’s instinct then, not intent, that causes Peter’s body to move closer curling around Carl’s, until they are cupped together snug and secure.

Peter wakes suddenly, though, startled by a buzzing vibration coming from the discarded jeans on the floor. _His_. He sits up with a start, trying to reach over Carl to grab for his mobile, giving up when it rings off, settling back down onto the bed.

He leans against the headboard, running his fingers through his matted hair, and looks over at Carl. No tattoo on him either, no _Libertine_ , Peter notes. There’s something else of note, too. Peter turns Carl’s are more towards him to get a better look, then gasps.

Some of the marks are new, red and raised, while other are fading into the shade of a healing bruise. And father still, in a jagged line, a stitched over scar travels from Carl’s wrist on up to mid-arm. Peter reaches across to Carl’s other arm that hangs carelessly off to the side and he spots another criss-crossed, sewn-up scar; a matched set.


	5. I Wish: Chapter 2A - A Hardcore Morning, Innit?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would happen if both Peter and Carl were granted a wish that would change the reality of where they are, and who they are, in regards to each other.
> 
> Alternate realities; starts a few years back (approx. 2008), then on to alternate timelines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The start of Carl's wish reality...
> 
> Teaser: It had been the two of them, and things had gone a bit off. He’d gone and fallen asleep on that matters, and Peter, he’d come over, laid down next to him, wrestled about as he always does, his legs flailing about even in sleep.

“Five more steps and we’ll have made it, just five more. Pete, c’mon, if we lag behind it will be too dark.”

  
“Thought you liked the dark, Carl. All cobwebby romance lord of the manor, innit?”

  
“Just round the bend, fucking slow coach. Rats at our heels. C’mon, Pete.”

  
“It’s what men in stained raincoats pay for. But in here…it is pure.”

  
“Long legs of yours and all you can do ‘s stand there and sing Pulp? You know I hate rats.”

  
“Yeah. This is the end of the line.”  
  
***  
  
Sunlight.  
  
Enough to make him go blind.  
  
 _The fuck is this?_  
  
Carl reaches underneath him, dislodging a tot-size, albeit sharp, toy car. He sits up and squints, looking the car over, then tosses it to the floor. His head feels weighted, heavy, his neck stiff and sore. His hands hurt, especially his right one. He holds is up towards the stream of light coming in from the window. Split knuckles.   
  
_Don’t remember hitting anyone…anything…_  
  
Carl sits up further, stretching his legs out, and cracking his neck. He rubs his marked fingers, then pushes back the fringe from out of his eyes. It’s now that the starts to focus in on the room around him. It’s unfamiliar to him, and so fucking bright.  
  
 _And that music…_  
  
 _Is someone playing Pulp?_  
  
 _Wait. Wasn’t Peter singing Pulp?_  
  
 _Wasn’t I with Peter?_  
  
He had been with Peter, Carl was sure of it. Guitar and a bottle, and another bottle, and…  
  
 _How much did we drink?_  
  
It had been the two of them, and things had gone a bit off. He’d gone and fallen asleep on that matters, and Peter, he’d come over, laid down next to him, wrestled about as he always does, his legs flailing about even in sleep. He’d slept, eventually they both had.  
  
 _How long did I sleep?_  
  
There are more toys scattered about this room, a front room in a flat he doesn’t recognize. Carl has been asleep on a couch, it seems.  
  
 _Whose couch?_  
  
He gets up and wanders around, rubbing at his temples, noticing that his knees feel rough, as if he’s been turned the wrong way. Carl hears water running in the back of the flat.  
  
 _Must be a bathroom._  
  
 _Could use one right now._  
  
The floors are wooden planks, a bit posh, his boots slip as he makes his way down the hall.  
  
The bathroom door is ajar and he hears her inside, singing; Carl sighs, relief a flood of sense that settles his stomach some, an exhale of everything being alright.   
  
_Will sort out where I am, yeah, she’ll have answers._  
  
 _She’ll know where I’ve been._  
  
 _Where this is._  
  
Carl pushes open the door further and steps into the small bathroom. He stands over the toilet, unzips his jeans, and rests his other hand against the wall. More relief, as Carl feels his body relax further, closing his eyes for a moment, listening to her sing.  
  
 _“You got to take these dreams and make them whole.  
Oh, this is Hardcore – _  
_there is no way back to you.”_  
  
He looks over, smiling at the silhouette of her naked body behind the fogged glass, and feels a tug of desire. He kicks his boots off, and is arms-in-the-air-mid-shirt-over-his-head position when she stops singing, turning her fact towards him.  
  
“In the shower.” Annalisa calls out.  
  
Carl takes it as an invitation, tugs his shirt the rest of the way off, slips out of his jeans, and slides back the glass door.  
  
She screams.  
  
Loudly.  
  
“Get the fuck out of here!” Annalisa pushes Carl, slamming the glass door shut on his fingers and cursing loudly.  
  
“Pooks? ‘S me,” Carl slips on the now wet floor, struggling to steady himself and assure her at the same time. His hand, the one with the cracked knuckles, starts to sting.  
She slams it again, same hand.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
 _That fucking stings._  
  
“The fuck? If you’re angry that I was…” Carl starts to defend, pushing down the guilt as he remembers he really didn’t tell her where he’d gone.  
  
“Get the fuck out of here, Carl!” She hisses, seething really, wiping water out of her eyes and grabbing for the door to slam again.  
  
Carl grabs up his clothes, also now wet, and backs out of the bathroom. His bare feet slide on the hardwood floor, and he falls back against the painted yellow wall. He stays there on the floor, shaken up, and tries to pull on his wet jeans. She’s been angry before, especially when it had to do with Carl being gone and not phoning. They’d gone through that rough patch, a year ago, when he had those days when he just couldn’t find his way home, back when he took that flat that he hadn’t told her about. But they’d got past all that, had grown closer, and had the boys – from his new band - around them as their almost family.  
  
 _Know how she feels about Peter…’s why I didn’t tell her._  
  
He should have told her, Carl knows he should have, but fuck it isn’t as if he has to tell her everything. Carl feels the anger simmer up, wrestling for purchase in his throbbing head, and he decides that bed is the best thing for it. Denial under the comfort of a duvet seems the cure, but the trouble is, this isn’t their flat, that isn’t their bedroom, and he’s not quite sure who lives here, at all.  
  
He stands up then, wanders back into the front room, and sits on the edge of the couch that he’d apparently slept on. Carl scratches his head and shakes it back-and-forth, in an attempt to retrieve the steps that brought him here in the first place. They hadn’t had that much to drink - Carl has knocked back far more before – and he’s quite sure they never left Peter’s. So, how die he wind up asleep on some god awful…  
  
 _What is this? Velveteen?_  
  
Couch  in a room full of kid things and dreadful paintings and…  
  
“One thing to let him stay here, Johnny, ‘s fine and all…know he’s an old made, but it’s not on for him to try to nip into the shower with me…no…no John…no…enough. When I get back tonight…no…I am not…was in the bloody shower…”  
  
Carl can’t help but take notice, raised voice and all, as if she wants him to hear everything she’s saying.  
  
 _What kind of new battle strategy is this then? Who’s Johnny?_  
  
Should get up and throw arms around her, cover his mouth over hers, tell her he loves her then maybe she’ll do that thing with her fingertips at his temples that makes all the pain go away. She’s good at it, at making him forget, at soothing all his aches.  
  
She understands me.  
  
Carl gets up, no sense in this continuing further, and the questions are just making his stomach burn anyway. He starts back down the hall, following where he’s heard her voice, pushing open the bedroom door. She flips around, clothed this time, but her hair is still wet, a stray droplet trailing down her cheek like an errant tear.   
  
Carl watches it, tempted to wipe it away gently with a soft touch, or a kiss.  
  
“What you think this is? Bloody fucking uncalled for, ‘s no wonder he throw you out,” Annalisa spits the words out at him, each one laced with poison, and vitriol.  
  
 _Threw me out?_  
  
“Listen Annalisa, I know you are right pissed off with me for…” Carl steps towards her cautiously, trying to slow his breathing so his voice doesn’t give away his fucking irritation at all this nonsense.  
  
 _Shut it now, quiet and still._  
  
A chill runs through him now, the kind that prickles the skin at the nape of his neck.   
  
_Déjà vu, innit?_  
  
But if he’s been here before, why the fuck doesn’t he remember it?  
  
Annalisa shoves past him, not letting him finish, or move in any closer. She grabs a bag, a set of keys, stumbles a moment on the scattered toys, a flurry of expletives flying out of her pursed lips.  
  
“Fucking cars, sodding boys, fucking arrogant bastard, things he can just…fuck.”  
  
The front door is thrown open, then slammed shut behind him. Carl is met with a conflicting sense of relief, and abandonment.  
  
 _What do I do now?_  
  
 _Where the fuck am I?_  
  
  



End file.
